


Prisoner?!

by Vivahogwarts



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day, M/M, Nice Montparnasse, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 21:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19118011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivahogwarts/pseuds/Vivahogwarts
Summary: Montparnasse disguises himself as a National Guard and goes to the barricade to try and protect Jehan.He ends up shooting him instead.





	Prisoner?!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jamilton_and_Lams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamilton_and_Lams/gifts).



OH FUCK.  
Prouvaire...

Montparnasse, dressed in a stolen guards uniform slightly too big for him stared as the man supposed to be his sergeant came marching towards him, prisoner in tow. Because oh fuck he recognised that face.   
Small. Freckled. Hidden behind long hair falling out of its ribbon that would have been neatly tied this morning. That *was* neatly tied this morning for Parnasse himself had tied it with his deft fingers for the young man. Godawful clothes he wouldn't be seen dead in...  
Seen dead in...he had said that had he not? In jest? This morning...before he had set off to go play revolutionaries with his little friends...  
That joke wasn't funny now.   
Not when the boy he came here to protect stood before him with wide terrified eyes. Such fear. Such desperation.   
Not when they were binding his hands and shoving a blindfold over his eyes. Those amazing green eyes that would not see another sunrise...  
"Wait," he heard himself saying. "Let the prisoner be. Let him see his fate. See his little friends rush helplessly to his rescue. If they even bother to come."   
He looked right into those terrified green eyes and saw a spark of resistance left. A spark of resolution. "Let him see my face as I shoot him..."   
"Alright," the seargent said, beckoning forward one of his men. "Take the prisoner. See if you can do a deal with them. Our man for theirs. But if he makes a peep...kill him." The man spits these words into Jehan's face who remarkably does not even flinch. Montparnasse watches him. Remembers that face.   
When all the trouble is over a man matching his description is found dead in an alley off the rue st homme.   
"Aye sir. Come on you..."  
He drags Jehan by the arm, praying yo a god he has never believed in that the beautiful idiot will keep quiet. Bullet wounds are sooo much work!  
Of course he doesn't. As soon as the poet is within earshot of his precious fucking friends he begins to yell.  
"Vive la France!"  
Fuck.  
"Vive la France!"  
Fuck fuck fuck fuck....shut up shut up shut up beforevthty kill you.....  
"Vive L'Avenir!"  
Bang. A bullet comes cascading from the gun he himself is holding, hitting the poet prisoner squarely in the shoulder. He drops to the ground, gushing with blood. Oh God! So much blood!   
Montparnasse is not unfamiliar with or uncomfortable with blood or death. But NOT HIS FLOWER'S BLOOD! NOT HIS FLOWER'S DEATH! He sends the other man away, leaving him with what anyone else would assume to be a corpse.  
"I'll get rid of this sir!" He yells, picking up his love gently and hissing to him "lay still, eyes closed, not a sound."  
He takes him off down the street and nobody stops them. Just another National Guard going about his duty. Further away he takes off the coat he wears and wraps it tightly around his injured lover.  
There now they look like a guard assisting his wounded colleague. He makes for what was, until recently, the old man's house. Mabeuf...or whatever his name was. Another dead man in this bastard world that makes him shoot the man he loves because he wears a uniform and his love does not.

He pounds on the door, hoping beyond hope that idiot woman who fed him as a boy is still there.

"Please Madame. Please... mon amour...he's injured. He was shot. You have to help him."  
Parnasse despises asking for help. Refuses to beg. Has stood entirely alone for the last ten winters. But Jehan is bleeding...dying in his arms from his own damned shot.  
The world is upside down and inside out and the normal rules no longer apply.   
And she just looks at him in shock and he feels tears springing in his eyes and he is so scared. More scared than he has ever been in his entire life. And so mad.   
Mad at himself for crying. Mad at the woman for just standing there. Mad at the man in his arms for not keeping his fucking mouth shut. For leaving in the first place. For daring to be dying when he is still here.   
Mad at the idiots at the barricade and the National Guard and the fucking King and God and all the fucking universe!  
And if she doesn't help him....  
If Jehan dies...  
He doesn't know what he will do.   
"Monty...little Monty..."  
"Yes! Yes. Please! Please help us Madam...Please...my darling..."  
"Come in." She says, ushering them inside and slamming the door. She bolts it and barricade it.   
"Table. Kitchen. Go. There are bad people about. People with guns. The world has gone mad."  
He nods. This much they can agree on.  
There is nothing to use as a bandage. The house is nearly bare. And...fuck he needs to get that bullet out. Quickly.  
He isn't an idiot. He may not know much about politics or poetry but he knows how to remove a bullet if you want the person to live. Knows you have to clean it first. And wrap it up after.  
Montparnasse searches the pockets of the coat he stole, desperate for something to clean the wound. Anything! And by some miracle he finds a tiny bottle of whisky in the front pocket.   
Oh thank you thank you thank you. Thank you whoever is out there!  
He pours a little on his hand then the rest into the wound. Jehan has been groggy and whimpering all the way here and this makes him scream loudly and jerk up.   
Montparnasse pushes him down gently, soothing his hair and gestures for the woman.   
"I need a needle. And thread. And a candle. A pipe will do. Just some sort of flame. Please Madame. And, and I need you to hold him down for me."  
In another life, maybe, he could have been a doctor. In a life where men like him were not forced to steal and murder to feed and clothe themselves. He has no training that the streets of Paris have not provided but Paris is a wonderful teacher. He has all the training he needs.  
He kisses his love on the lips then shoves his hand into his shoulder, finds the bullet and pulls it out. Then he looks into the wound. The muscle is intact. Good. That's good. It just needs closing up and wrapping up.   
There is nothing to wrap it with...  
He rips his shirt off and pulls it apart at the seams, wincing. That is a very expensive shirt. Then he takes the needle the woman proffers him.   
Threads it. Tries to calm himself. He has done this before. Once or twice. Never pretty but still effective. Both men had lived. The streets teach a man a whole host of skills.   
He looks around for a flame, notices a tiny tallow candle still lit. Brings it over for the light and runs the needle through the flame. It will do. He's used a pipe to clean metal before.  
"Now mon amour we're going to play a little game... Its called Keep Still For Monty. This is going to hurt but you meed to be still. If I don't hurt you you'll die."  
"Can't...can't..."  
"Can. Shush."  
He slips back into the cold detached place he goes to to deal with the madness sometimes, raises the needle.  
"Hold him Madame."  
And he starts to stitch, ignoring the man's cries and grunts and begging.  
Soon the shoulder is stitched up and wrapped and Montparnasse is sitting his lover up.   
"There. Now. If I've done that right you should be alright."  
"Good. Thank you. Good. Now I can go back."  
He tries to stand up.  
Montparnasse grabs his waist and holds him in position.   
"You aren't going anywhere sweetie," he growls. "You are injured so you wouldn't be able to defend yourself. You'd get us both killed."  
"My friends..."   
"Are dead. Or they soon will be. And so would you be if I didn't get you out. Don't you get it? The people aren't coming. They betrayed you. You lost. And it's too late to go back. They think you're dead. I'm sorry but you just died as far as everyone else is concerned. There's no going back there. No going home. We lay low here then we get the hell out of the city for good."  
"No." He tries to shove Parnasse away but he is too weak. "You're wrong. They will rise. They must. And even if they don't I will die by my friends. I promised! I *will* Montparnasse and you can't stop me!"  
Then he does something he swore he would never do and strikes Jehan round the face, the fear and anger of the past day crashing upon him.  
"You would rather die with them that live with me?! You would leave me behind while you go to die?! Again?! You swore you loved me. Was that all a lie?!"  
"No..."  
"Then stay with me! Live. What do I have if I don't have you to come home to?! Nothing! PLEASE!"  
"I will stay."  
It is so quiet that in his desperate anger Montparnasse misses it.   
"I will stay." Jehan says again. "I will stay here and let my friends die believing I am gone from them. I will stay..."  
Then he pushes himself to his feet and walks to sit on the floor in the corner, eyes closed.   
Montparnasse knows this stance. It's the stance he offers when he wants to be alone.  
So he leaves him alone. And Jehan stays. And neither of them speak to each other.   
They stay like this for three days. Listen to the gunshot then the silence then the weeping. Then the world picking itself up and carrying on like nothing happened. The world was good at that.  
On the fourth day he decides it's safe to leave. They are both still weak and Jehan seems to be in shock but now if ever is the time to get him away from the city.  
"I'm sorry," he says that night.  
"No."  
"What do you mean no?"   
"No."  
"We need to leave."  
"No."  
"Jehan..."  
"Don't."  
"Don't...? Leave?"  
"Don't. Talk. To. Me."  
"I'm sorry."  
"Enjolras. Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Bahorel. Feuilly. Marius. Joly. Bossuet. Grantaire."   
"Gavroche." He replies. "He was there. Hope the runt got out alright. He's only eleven. Claquesous..."  
"Joly was going to be a father. Didn't even know," Jehan tells him. "Now his girl will be just another unmarried mother."  
"Bastards. I'm sorry."  
"All gone."   
"Yeah."  
"And only me left."  
"And me. Right here. Next to you. Come on. Let's just...go."


End file.
